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Ch. 5: Tree and Bough
(Return to Contents: Arheled) ' Chapter Five ' ' Tree and Bough ' The drumming roar of the rain woke Brooke up. She blinked, wondering what time it was. Everything was pitch-black, even her nightlight, so the power was likely out. She closed her eyes and lay still. It was impossible. The rushing patter of the downpour called to her, splashing, beating on roof and window. She heard the loud splatter of the drips outside her window, like tiny waterfalls. Her heart began to pound madly and a delicious thrill of excitement coursed through her. Sitting up in bed she surrendered to the call and threw open the window. It was warm outside! Damp humid fog blew dimly past, the moist air kissing her face, calling her out. It had to be in the 60s out there; but even if it was only 50°, who cared? Running to her bedroom door she locked it and stood for a moment, glorying in the wild laughter of the elements. Her whole skin wanted to be out in it, to feel it and delight in it. “I must be completely insane.” she giggled. Pulling off her nightclothes she struggled for a moment with her underthings, but they came too and she climbed out the window completely naked. It faced the thick belt of woods on the west, at the rear of the house, and gave out upon the low sloping roof of the lean-to where her dad piled the firewood. None of the other windows could see her, for hers was the only one in this end of the upper story. Ever since she was old enough to have her own room she had done this whenever it rained at night. She never got tired of it. Ice-cold rain splashed all over her body. She gasped and laughed: under her breath, old habit schooling her in not making a sound. She plunged her head under the Drips and felt the wonderful coldness deluge her scalp and pour over back and breasts. She stood under the cascade and exulted as water washed over her skin and froze every inch of her. This was fun! '' Before she could get too cold Brooke slipped in the window and stood there, streaming water all over the floorboards, as she groped frantically for a towel. There were always a few of them in her room from forgetting to return them after wrapping her hair from the shower, and she soon located one. Scrubbing herself all over soon made her body glowing and exultant, and Brooke flopped on her bed and rolled around on the covers for sheer bliss. Then she sobered down and got dressed. “A rainbath in the middle of November.” she giggled. “Yep, certifiably insane.” It had always been this way for her, she reflected as she pulled the covers close. Water excited her, delighted her, drove her mad sometimes. She loved to swim, even in cold water, and frequently would sneak off for bike rides to local swimming holes at the most unseasonable times. It was as if she had an affinity for it, was akin to it somehow, as if water was part of her soul. “Child of the streams.” she said aloud. “Describes me in a nutshell. Come to think of it, nobody else ever gave me half as good a compliment.” Her thoughts turned to the strange man in the brown coat, whom she’d seen twice now. Had he been about to say something to her, before she and her friends had unleashed their silliness on him, something important perhaps? Some words that would unlock her future and show in one blinding moment her purpose and her reason? Had she by her nonsense destroyed that moment forever? Lying on her bed with damp hair spread out on the pillow around her, Brooke felt tears like thorns come behind her eyes. Forest got off his bike with considerable relief. He wasn’t much on biking as a rule, but Mom was out and he wanted to read more of a series he’d started. So he’d left her a note and headed off. The November air was colder than he’d expected, but it was nearly Thanksgiving after all, and soon there would be snow. He liked snow, in his own quiet peculiar way, but he wasn’t insane about it the way some of the kids at church were. The town was brown and gray, bare and windy and wrapped up for winter. He left his bike in the rack and headed inside. Avoiding the librarian as usual he slipped upstairs and went for the shelves. The book he wanted was there, and he sat down in a chair next to a young girl of eleven who was staring out the window. As all the computers were full, though only a fragment of the Library Gang was in evidence, she was probably waiting her turn. He stared at the cover of '' Shadowmancer Returns '' with the pleasant sense of anticipation that comes just before enjoyment of a treat. “Hey, I know you!” the eleven-year-old girl’s voice broke in on his reverie. He looked up, apprehensive. “You’re Forest, aren’t you?” He nodded, trying to remember where she might know him from. “I thought so. I met you at the computer, remember? You were looking up something about Arheled. I’m Bell.” “Bell…Light?” “You do remember!” she said delightedly. “How’ve you been?” “Pretty good.” An uncomfortable silence fell as each one tried to think of something else to say. “What is the Road?” Bell said suddenly. “The one they closed.” “It has something to do with Arheled.” said Forest. “He wouldn’t talk about it. In my dream.” “You dream a lot?” “Really weird dreams.” Forest replied. '' If they are dreams at all, '' he added silently. '' Because I think some of them did exist in actuality. “Tell me.” “Uhh…I…the Tree, sometimes…the dead Tree…” “The Tree.” said Bell slowly. “Is it…silver?” “You’ve seen it, too?! Have you??” he blurted. Her face was serious. “Once.” she answered. “A magnificent, glorious Tree. It was like a mountain. I was really far off, but it was all alight, you know, glowing?” “They grew light.” he said. “They? There’s more than one?” “There were Two.” said Forest sadly. “But they died. Darkness drank their blood of light. They are dead.” “Do you still dream about them—“ “Uh-uh.” Forest shook his head. “Not since they died. A couple weeks ago—no, it was back by Halloween—I saw them, though. After they died.” “What happened?” Bell breathed. Her eyes were wide and glowing. Somehow Forest forgot that he never could say the things that he thought; it was as if she was part of him and he could speak to her. “They grew out the Sun and Moon.” There was silence in the library. The chatter of teens at the computers behind them was a mere murmer. Pipes clicked and groaned as the heat cut in. And Bell and Forest gazed at each other, one wide with wonder, and one intent, lost in mystery. “But they were dead.” Bell whispered. Forest shook his head. “One ancient branch suddenly bloomed. Their roots glowed. The silver Tree, all the blossoms died, all but one, and it grew so big it bent the whole branch down. The golden Tree put up a new shoot, sudden and huge, and bending it down was a giant fruit of flame. They watched. The Gods held their breath.” “Then what did they do?” Forest frowned. “I don’t know. Things got pretty chaotic after that. I saw all sorts of things at once. I saw white ships, the loveliest ships you ever saw, and they were burning. There was a giant forge with tools that were alive shooting about every which way at the gestures of a gigantic figure all aglow with the light of the thing that he was making; it was like the whole place was turned to luminous silver. It was awesome. Then I saw this giant mountain, I mean it was steep, and it was like so high that the stars had to steer around it as they passed, and suddenly they started dimming. “The black-blue sky was getting bluer. You know when the moon is full and the sky around it is this sort of dark dull blue? It was like that. The stars were alarmed. I heard them calling in strange silvery voices, like ice made of frozen light. Then suddenly huge figures of light heaved with giant hands as if they were throwing the mother of all rocks, and the Moon hurled overhead and into the heavens, and the stars shot away from him and waited at a distance. He ignored them and sailed out majestically over the earth.” “I thought the Moon was a she.” “Well, it sure felt like a he in my dream.” said Forest. “And then the really awesome thing happened. The sky turned blue. Real blue. I couldn’t see the stars but I heard them shouting. I could see the world. The black seas turned blue. The lands flamed into green.” He stopped, his face alight with the memory of that moment. “But what was it…was something…” Forest’s eyes shone. “''The Sun was rising.” He gulped a little and went on. “She was floating like a ship of hot air. Her heart was a globe of unburning flame. It was the fruit. The Gods had forged the Sun and Moon.” It was a while before Bell spoke. “What did the Moon look like?” Forest gazed past her, out the window. The high belfry of Christ Church, unhidden now by any leaves, rose opposite him, and the queer pendant insets beneath the steeple-brim seemed almost to swing back and forth as he looked. “Round.” he answered. “On the bottom. It rose in front like a huge man had melded himself into the prow, sort of like a Viking ship figurehead, you know? and it was made of glass it looked like, all thin and shimmery, and there was a giant blossom resting in the middle amid lakes of silver fluid light.” “Awesome.” Bell breathed. “And I thought my dreams were somethin’!” “So you’re the fellow.” a girl’s voice said behind Forest. It was a sweet voice, clear and somehow white. He looked up and saw a slender teenaged girl, perhaps a year or two older than him, with dark golden hair and brilliant pale eyes of a startling light blue, warm and rather humerous. “The one who told Mr. Rougat in science class that the Sun and Moon grew on trees.” “Uh…” said Forest. “Sorry to be so rude,” the girl said quickly. “I was at the computer just behind you. Do you know Julian and Delilah?” “Yeah.” said Forest. It was all he could say. “Yeah, they were talking about you a while back, and when I heard that remark about them growing on trees all I could think of was this huge tree dangling twin globes of light from it’s twigs before flinging them to outer space.” “How much did you hear?” Bell asked tartly. “Because Forest says it was a lot different.” “Forest? Pleased to meet you, I’m Brooke Pond.” “This is weird,” said Forest, and grimaced. ''This is definitely not a coincidence, '' was what he had tried to say. “My name is Forest Lake.” “And mine is Bell Light.” said Bell proudly. Brooke whistled. “This is so cool. I wonder how many other kids are out there with these kind of names.” “Very few.” said Forest. “Yeah, I mean, serious, I know a couple of girls named after flowers, and there’s another Brooke goes to my church, and I think I heard somebody called Travel, but they have normal last names like Beecher and Case, you know?” Bell was saying. “Maybe we’re meant to form some kind of weird fellowship or something.” Brooke was saying at almost the same time. “What do we all seem to have in common?” “What bond unites us.” Bell quipped. Forest listened drowsily and considerable enjoyment to Brooke and Bell animatedly comparing interests and friends and favorite books and totally forgetting why exactly they were on this topic. It was very nice to listen to girls talking about intelligent things for once. All the same there was one key element they were missing, and never hitting on; he felt it, but could not name it, and it irritated him no end. Perhaps they would arrive at it if he would only listen. “…So I was at the beach, right, this is really funny, a huge wave comes up and it just '' covers me up and I like couldn’t swim to save my life no matter how much I fought, and Ben had to pull me out of the current and it just totally ate our sand castle…” Brooke was saying. Wave. Why was he thinking about waves? Devouring sand castles…towers…the consuming wave… He shook his head, furious. It had something to do with last night’s dream, the one he couldn’t remember. It was exasperating. “What am I seeing?” he murmered. “If I really am one of those who can see, then what is being shown me? Not just the Tree. Something more…something big…” “…when I was with Brad, it was just like Hey, how’s it going? but now this other boy in school is hitting on me and Brad’s like How can you possibly do this to me, Bell? and I’m like What the…? where did you ever get that idea?” Forest got up abruptly. He didn’t feel like wasting time listening to girls discussing boy troubles. He was hungry and wanted to think. And paint. Maybe if he finally finished painting the Tree he might remember his dream. Neither girl noticed him leave. Even though he was used to this happening—and used it, on more than one occasion—it miffed him a little for some reason. They were still happily chattering as he headed down the stairs to check out his book. Silver gleaming and dripping from the boughs. Dews of glowing white edged on the bottom of the droplets with his brightest silver pencils and paints. Deep lustrous velvet-green for the upper leaves, and from under every leaf tiny rays of white. Glowing white bole and glowing white boughs, light both shining and streaming from the wood. Swinging small flowers at the sides of the farther twigs and tips of every branch; he could not picture their incredible detail, even with his thinnest silver ink, so he made them incandescent and indistinct. The result fitted well enough. All during Thanksgiving break Forest painted. His aunt and grandmother came over, as well as some of Mom’s friends, and the grown-ups were having enough good times downstairs for him to escape memory for incredible periods. Mrs. Lake did remember to feed him and yell at him to come down for dinner; Forest ate as fast as he could and bolted back upstairs. The Tree…with the reflection of the Other Tree and even some protruding limbs of new-green and fiery gold leaves and trumpet-like blossoms of golden orange flame…the deep faintness of the shadowy background…far from finished, but closer to it. '' Come and breathe the fresh air, Forest. '' Gold and yellow and glowing red filled his mind. Silver, white and laurel green. New-green and misty dark blueness. He gloried in it, although eye and head ached. '' Too long have you sat in the shadows. Come and see what the wind and the sky are doing. '' Forest put aside his pens and rinsed his brushes. He stumbled a little as he got up; he was stiff and sore from not moving. Clumsily he went over to the window. '' Let me see it, Forest. '' Not quite knowing why, Forest took the large sheet of damp thick paper and the drawing board it was fastened to, and headed downstairs with it. The house was dead and silent: that’s right, Mom had called up that they were going out somewhere. He opened the front door. “May I come in? asked the man in the brown leather coat. A bitter wind hissed into the front hall through the doorway. “It’s very cold outside, and one cannot talk well in the cold.” “Um, sure, come on in.” said Forest, a delighted grin breaking over his thin pale face. “Nobody’s home, but there’s lots of leftover, so please go ahead.” The man smiled as he cut some blueberry and mincemeat pie and added whipped cream. “May I see the Tree?” Slowly, almost reluctantly, Forest brought out his tremendous, secret painting and gave it to him. The man held up the board. His weathered gentle face grew grim, sad, laden with memory and laden with laughter long passed from the earth. A glow was arising from the paint. In the dim sitting room it seemed to bear a soft halo, as if the Tree was awaking, was coming into life. “What a marvelous likeness.” he murmered. “Not as it was, but a glimpse of it, incarnate for eyes to behold it that can. Did you know, Forest, that the Trees lived on, or one of them at least?” “But they were stabbed.” the boy stammered. “The darkness of the rider drank their life.” “And from them grew the Sun and Moon.” the man in brown answered. He took off his fur-muffed cap he had worn against the cold and raked one hand through his hat-ruffled hair. Black as coal it looked against the brightness of the painting. “Each bore one fruit and only one in all its’ ages of living. The fruit of the Second became the bark of the Sun, but what of the other?” “The Moon was made of a blossom, not a fruit.” “The fruit I speak of arose long before, when the Gods were still in bliss and no shadow on Tavenda lay. So rare and wonderful a thing was it the Gods were at a loss for what to do with it. In the end they deemed it was meant to be grown, and so they put it down into the earth and watched for it to wake. And behold as they watched it put up a shoot of pure white wood and dark green leaf, and it grew tall, and large, until it was higher than the Gods and bore blossoms like living snow, and there stood a tree in the image of the Tree of Silver, elder of the Two: but it gave no light and drank no light, growing as any other tree of mortal worlds. And the Gods took it to the Tavenda, who yearned to see both the Trees and the Stars who were hidden by the Trees, and they set it in their city and it grew tall and fair. The fruits of this tree were taken to the mortal shores over time, as a gift from king to king, and as a treasure snatched from the great disaster.” “Does it still grow?” said Forest breathlessly. The man in brown shook his head. “Only across the Vanished Sea, in the immortal lands forever sealed to mortals, Forest. Not here in Arda. Not upon the mortal shores.” “Why?” Forest cried. “What happened to it?” “It was forgotten in the changes of the world.” the other answered, his voice remote and distant. “It was destroyed in the Great Submerging, when the ancient world was washed from off the earth and even the memory of the Elves was destroyed. No seedlings remained. One fruit alone escaped, but that fruit was laden with doom, for it was foretold over it that if it was planted, it would never fruit again. So it has been treasured, in secret places and hidden hills, from age unto age of the Dominion of Men. And Men have spread across the earth, and nowhere can the fruit be safely planted as it must be in the last Age of the World, for Men will destroy it as they destroy in the end all things that are fair.” “But I don’t understand.” said Forest. “A tree as fair and wonderful as this would not be harmed. The environmentalists would declare it an endangered species.” “No,” the stranger said firmly. “The White Tree is bound with the Kings of Men, whose line has disappeared; bound with their fate, it will not abide being made into an altar by the fools who think Man is a pestilence on Nature. Nor would it be free even then. The scientists would take it and would dismantle its’ nature, and drag it down into a thing of experiment. No, Forest, the world can no longer endure the White Tree of Heaven.” “The fruit will die soon if it is not planted, am I right?” said Forest. The man in brown stared at him. “You have keen sight indeed, son of the trees. And I should expect no less, for it was for that cause that I called you.” “Is the fruit still—in the world?” Is it still where mortals can see it, was what he had meant to say, but the man understood and answered him anyway. “I planted it.” At this flat statement Forest looked quickly up, his eyes wide and bright in the dim room, as if they caught the light of his strange painting. “Where?” was all he could say. “I hid it.” the man in brown replied. “What is not there cannot be harmed, and what men do not see they do not destroy. Every hundred years it can be seen for one mortal night, but the Road will let none touch it, nor it pass forth.” “What is the Road?” The man in brown finished his pie and took a slice of turkey. A twinkle shone in his amber-and-blue eyes. “You do not know of the peril ‘mid which we stand,” he began to sing in an odd melancholy tune, “you do not know of the dangers of this land…” “How can I know the dangers if no one will tell me them?” “Because dangers were not meant to be known, but to be evaded.” the man in brown answered. “Warnings are not intended to explain. The Tree lives, and the Trees are dead, and the Tree painted may be more than it may seem. Paint them, Forest. But do not incarnate them, nor seek to call up what has been concealed. When the Road is sent it does not brook dissent, and the call of the Road is not easy to gainsay.” December drew on. In the churches—for all of them, Methodists and Baptists no less than the Catholics, had come to accept and celebrate Advent—the pine wreaths and thick candles, three purple and one pink, were set up and lighted each Sunday. It grew steadily colder. From being barely frost-temperature at night, it became usual for it to be in the 20s, and then in the teens, and then single digits. Lara delighted in the cold. The streams became fringed with ice, layer on horizontal layer, around every rock, and every pendant twig too near the water became a pear-shaped blob of silvery grey that grew steadily thicker. Ice clods rose up from every damp place, vertical pillars meshed together, a couple inches every day, and every day a new layer. Lilac just wanted it to snow. Lara liked the grim weather. Even when she had to wear layers indoors, she liked it. The little house was drafty, despite all the plastic on the windows and some extra insulation. Lilac, of course, just curled up in a ball by the heater and wrapped herself in quilts and refused to budge. “Now if we could only get snow by Christmas.” she said. “I don’t understand how you can be such a snugglepuss and still want snow.” Lara said affectionately. “Mmmp, it’s warm in here.” Lilac mumbled with a dimpled grin and buried her head in the covers. Summer, who was supposed to be being minded by Lara, began to grunt very oddly from her bassinet. “And Summer smells bad.” “Oh, she’d better not.” said Lara. Scooping the big-eyed infant up she glared at him in mock ferocity. “Do you smell bad? You’re not supposed to smell bad.” she growled. Summer flapped one tiny arm. “How dare you smell bad?” Lilac put in, grinning even more. “Those who smell bad shall be anathema! “Their diapers certainly shall be!” Laughing, Lara went off to change the baby. When Summer had a nice new diaper Lara strolled around the bedrooms, dangling the bassinet from one elbow band alternately making faces at the baby and gazing out the windows. Summer gurgled. Lara put her down with relief—she was getting heavy—and leaned on the windowsill of her own room, gazing out at the two-inch snow cover on the steep hill. She sighed. The moon hung low in the trees on the right. The hill below her, marred and scraped nearly bare of snow by the treads of Midwinter sleds, looked mottled in the faint blue light where the sun had melted it. There were no streetlights on Mountain Road, and only the yardlights of the farm beneath her spoiled the scene. Lara twisted her neck, gazing up to where the stars stared down like ancient white jewels strung upon the trees. Summer made noises, but her big sister didn’t hear her. She was listening to something else, elusive, cold, silver and blue; something was singing, haunting and melancholy and ominous, on the very edges of hearing. It could not have been the wind, for there was no wind, and the trees around her did not move. Something was singing, the echo of singing, like the voice in the wind she had heard so long ago, a month ago, a thousand years ago; and Lara listened, frozen into place. Empty heavens filling till the night is spangled day '' ''Stars so close and banded as to drive the dark away '' ''Stars swirl-warring as the heavens shake and play '' ''Doomed as they stand near and say… '' A gust of wind roared through the oak branches. The deep moan drowned the strange singing, rising up to overwhelm it on all sides of it, and like a single slash of light Lara saw a shooting star flash and die across the heavens. Only meteors, she knew, but the sight somehow filled her with an inexpressible sorrow, as if she was seeing the destruction of one more shard of some unimaginable war. The wind rose to a scream and in the scurrying shreds of moon-silvered cloud she saw outlined for a moment a terrible face, looking into hers; but the clouds shredded apart and were gone, and the wind roared on and took them with it. And as the silence and cold settled back upon Riverton, Lara heard the singing once again. ''Shapes and shadows form as they parade across the sky '' ''The world that they mirror as they all go down to die '' ''Stars unwinking gaze upon the Earthland going by '' ''Shining upon their own doom. '' The voices dipped steeply at the last note, as if plunging into destruction, and were gone. Lara remained at the window, tears frozen to her lids as she listened, listened for more, but the voices had gone and the singing was silenced. Ronnie Wendy looked around as Mass got out, but among the many faces draining out of the pews he didn’t see Travel’s. He felt disappointed. It would have been so nice if she’d come over, but she hadn’t. There was no help for it; he was going to have to go to St. James. Thin powdery snow covered the ground, and a frigid December wind hissed at his nose as he pulled up his scarf. The Midwinters hadn’t been around as much, and even though Lara had showed up today, she’d seemed distracted, those blank bright eyes haunted and shadowy. She’d smiled and talked a little, but almost as if she just wanted to be polite. He hadn’t lingered. Inside St. James turned out to be smaller than he’d expected. He had the hardest time remembering not to bless himself with holy water that wasn’t there or to not genuflect before entering the pew. Catholic habits, he thought with a smile. He wasn’t even early, as it turned out; Father’s sermon had been long, and there was the Advent wreath lighting, so the 8:00 Mass had actually gotten out at 9:15. There seemed to only be a few people here; twenty at most, he counted. One dark-haired girl flanked by a lumbering silver-headed man and a tall stiff old woman sat near the front, and he wondered if that was Travel. To occupy himself as the mass proceeded he gazed around the interior. Small and square, the sanctuary walls painted a dull peach, the rest grey and ancient white, thick squat columns, fat arches. He kept being distracted from his scrutiny, especially before mass, by the fact that nobody left him alone. Little old ladies were always coming up and welcoming him. He was relieved when the service began. The readings—except here they called them “lessons”—passed by him. More and more Ronnie felt the strange atmosphere of St. James as he gazed around him. Dull, queer, grey and brown, tomblike walls and catacomb pillars: it felt like half a church, a church halved, dying, cut off from its’ source. How true that was of the Episcopal church as a whole, he thought. A branch severed, what little sap remained drying up, leaves wilting. It is not the true Church. He gazed at the stained glass windows, brilliant stained glass like jewels of red and green and blue. Except for one window. ''“Seek ye-e first the-e ki-ing-dom of God…” sang the scanty congregation. That window, halfway up the left side, was without color. Pale dull-hued glass depicted grim colorless saints—or angels, it was hard to tell. Ronnie stared at it hard. The service had many songs Ronnie remembered singing at St. Joseph’s. It was very like a Catholic Mass. Including a lousy Sign of Peace where everybody went around shaking everybody else’s hand and Ronnie had to respectfully incline his head to avoid shaking hands. He felt supremely irritated. Like most Catholics he preferred to worship in quiet anonymity. '' “Hos—aaa—anna….Hosannna…''” They can’t even pronounce Hosanna! Ronnie thought in disgust. Just as bad as the Praise & Worship charismatics at the 7:00 Mass. To hear Hosanna pronounced '' Hoz-aih-nna'' instead of Hos-onna was—jarring, to say the least. He remembered at the youth group he had sarcastically inquired “Who is Anna and why do we worship her hoses?” but nobody got the point. Afterwards, dexterously avoiding his landladies who apparently went to this church and were trying to welcome him to death, Ronnie made his way to the dark-haired girl. “Are you…Travel?” he said. She recognized him at once. “Oh! Hey! Ronnie from Super Stop & Shop! How are you?” “Pretty good. I got tired of waiting for you to come over.” “All part of my deep-seated plan to bring you into the fold. Hey Dad, this is my friend Ronnie. Ron, this is my dad, Mr. Lane, and my grandmother.” “Hi!” Mr. Lane said with a sunny old-man grin as he shook hands. “An honor to meet you.” Grandmother Lane murmered as she gave a slight bow. Ronnie returned the bow and replied, “And you likewise.” “Come, Rufus, these two have some talking to take care of, and Travel did bring her own car.” said Grandmother Lane, steering Mr. Lane easily down the aisle. “So…what shall we talk about first?” said Travel after a pause of about half a minute during which they stared blankly at each other. “Oh, the names of the stars, and of all living things, and the whole history of Middle-earth and Over-heaven and the Sundering Seas.” laughed Ronnie. “Mercy!” Travel wailed. “If the giving of information is to be the cure of your inquisitiveness—“ “I shall spend all the rest of my days in answering you!” both of them said at the same time, and laughed. “Not bad, you can even quote Lord of the Rings.” said Ronnie. “By the page.” she answered brightly. “Do you know '' the history of Middle-earth?” “Probably not well enough to give a complete summary of it, but enough. You know where he got the word Middle-earth from? It was originally Midgard from Norse mythology.” “Well, it had a bit of a different meaning there.” Ronnie replied. “They held that the universe was a huge tree with nine worlds in its’ bole, and ours—Midgarth—was between Surt or Muspelheim the fire-world and the worlds of the Light-Elves and the Gods. Old English rendered it '' middengeard and by that I think meant the middle-world, between the East and the West.” “Be interesting to look it up.” said Travel. “Muspelheim? So in Voyage to Arcturus, that Muspel-fire the hero seeks at the expense of everything good, is actually evil?” “The funny thing is,” said Ronnie, Tolkien intended Middle-earth to actually be our world, in the remote past, before the Flood, before the Ice Age—even before Atlantis.” “You serious? Where’d the Misty Mountains go to, then?” Well, it actually is pretty interesting, if you get out a map of Europe and look at it. I mean, if Lindon broke off from the Blue Mountains and they in turn got sundered by drowned land from the area east of the Lune River, you get Ireland and England, and the Gulf of Lune splits Cornwall from Wales. Then suppose the Misty Mountains are tectonically displaced so as to run NE along the coast of Norway..” “But that would drown the Shire!” “Possible, but if that got displaced as well it would end up in the Netherlands.” “Yeah, the Dutch are a little like hobbits in some ways.” “Or were before modern culture.” said Ronnie darkly. “The Entwives would like their country, certainly. Then you have the Baltic Sea filling the Anduin Vales, and the Mirkwood—which was originally in the Edda as Myrkwudu, you know—“ “The Edda?” “Sorry. A bunch of Norse epic poetry called the Edda. But if Mirkwood became Middle Germany, that would leave Wilderland as the entire Germanic countries, and the Alps as the White Mountains, and then you have of course Mordor.” '' “Unless the Great Sea should enter in and wash it with oblivion''!” Travel exclaimed. “Of course! The Black Sea is Mordor!” “And Minas Tirith becomes Byzantium if you slur it!” Ronnie said excitedly. “Of course, Spain and Italy are a problem…but if the White Mountains split in two and peeled Gondor off to the south, and if the seabed around Andrast was raised and Africa tectonically displaced north…” “Then the Sea of Rhûn would become the Caspian Sea!” “Exactly.” said Ronnie. “Which brings up an interesting point. Tolkien always felt he wasn’t ‘inventing’ so much as ‘recording’ something that was ‘coming through’ to him. And in fact, in one of his letters he says how he got a visit from a man who reminded him of Gandalf. He had found a lot of paintings that seemed designed to illustrate episodes in the Lord of the Rings, and he wanted to know if Tolkien had been influenced by them. When it became obvious Tolkien had never even heard of them, the man fell silent. Suddenly he said, “Of course you don’t suppose, do you, that you wrote that whole book yourself?’ Tolkien said that was ‘pure Gandalf’, and knowing better than to ask him what he meant, replied, ‘No, I don’t suppose so any longer.’ ” “That’s creepy.” said Travel. “You think that writers, in some strange intuitive way, are chosen to suggest or bring back the past that has vanished? But how does that square with the Bible?” “The Bible had only one purpose, to record the saving of humanity by Christ, starting with the Chosen People and ignoring everything else. For all we know the ancient Hebrews—well, the Patriarchs, actually, since Heber didn’t come till after the Flood—could have been living quietly in Khand or Near Harad while the Easterlings moved all around them. Genesis is really sketchy about pre-Abraham days.” “Oh yeah, I forgot how far back the Flood goes.” “Flood deposits in ruined cities put the Deluge at about 7000 BC, roughly. Even bump it up to 6000 BC and you’re still prior to most of known history. Egypt—only to 3 or 4000 BC. China—maybe a little farther. Same with India.” “They say mankind originated in Africa.” “Because they find ruins older than Egyptian there? Piffle. The Garden of Eden was at the headwaters of the Tigris and Euphrates; but scientists do not believe in the Bible.” “But what about the solar bodies? They were orbiting the Earth, right in the upper atmosphere if I remember. How’d he deal with modern cosmology?” “He didn’t.” said Ronnie. “He never solved that problem. At one point he was about to unmake the whole mythology to bring it into line with modern science, with how the heavens are today; because he felt the myths were true on some strange level. He gave up on that, but still realized it was a problem.” Travel laughed. “Oh goodness. Here we are actually treating the Lord of the Rings as real. Isn’t that just crazy? I mean, we look up at the Moon and we can see the dark plains on its’ stone surface. We see the Sun and the Planets, and we know they are far away, and that the Sun is a ball of burning gas.” “That is not what a star is, but only what it is made of.” Ronnie quoted Narnia. “True that! Isn’t it a pity, though? You look at Lord of the Rings and you wish that it was real, it hangs so close together, it feels so true. But I guess we’ll never know.” Travel said sadly. “Not upon this Middle-earth, at any rate.” Ronnie agreed. Christmas decorations were being strung up in the big reading room, and Forest sat on the brown plush furniture, concentrating on a book. It was hard to read, with the giggling of the teenaged assistants who were setting up the tree across from him. Long skinny Mindy, merry and friendly, was bopping pretty brown-haired Miranda over the head with ornaments. Forest put down the book and listlessly picked up a collection of stories about Highland Lake. Something was teasing at him, pulling him: that dream he could not remember, perhaps, trying to emerge. Something about a beach. He frowned at a color photo of the beach at First Bay. Waves…waves pounding, devouring sand castles…devouring towers and temples…steam exploding from a volcano as the sea covered it… He gasped. He no longer sat in the library. He stood on an unseen height, looking out over a green and white city of such beauty and culture he could only gape. It made the skyscrapers of Hartford look like crude and primitive towers, of a decadent civilization incapable of rising past a certain level. But the land was dark. Huge storm clouds boiled and lashed, and clouds poured from the mountain in the center of the land, and smoke came ceaselessly from the temple on the hill above the city, smoking like a volcano. He heard the crack of thunder, and then greater than thunder the shout of mighty horns. Ships like floating cities or swimming castles were moving slowly past him, black and red and gold, rowing ponderously, inexorably, to overthrow the very Gods themselves and cast down the stars from heaven. And from the darkness of the temple the rider of the darkness heard the horns and laughed. The sky snapped asunder. The earth folded beneath him, slanting to left and to right, and where it broke a giant fissure yawned amid the sea, sucking it down. Forest was rushing backward now as the land sank like a foundering ship and the wave climbed over it, over hill and tower and burning mountain, and the land was gone. Chasm and sea were shrinking as he shot farther up and back, and huge reaches of land were coming into view, and he could see the entire earth bending and crumpling as if gigantic hands were pushing down. The earth was not round. It had been flat, like to a mighty ship, lands and seas only upon the surface. Underneath were ancient jags and enormous grots and roots of stone, and as he watched from what had to be outer space he saw this underside being squeezed, compressed, melting in the violence of its’ bending until it became solid, a core of black glass a thousand miles thick, and it was alive. Half-molten rock, soft as dough, squeezed out of the bottom, spreading out as if smoothed by the same power that was bending the entire world, until there before him a globe now hovered. Where had once been only a small heart of fire, was now a sealed sea of it, and molten rock pulsed around its’ core. He saw the seas spreading out into new beds, and steaming there stood a new land along the seam of the bent world. He saw the air bent as well, and heard the weeping of the stars as they were made to forsake their ancient paths and walk in new roads around the world that was round. “The world was flat.” he said in awe. The library rushed back upon him, almost as if dropped in front of him with a crash. He sat in a daze for some time as the voices of the chattering girls flickered in and out of his awareness, along with snatches of the tremendous vision he had been jolted into remembering. “Are you all right?” said a girl’s voice in some concern. Forest, still in a daze, barely registered the spare trim form and hollow, almost blank face of the girl addressing him. When she spoke all he saw were her eyes: blank in rest, they flashed into life with a sort of abstract intensity. Almost like stars. “The stars are weeping.” he said. “Oh dear, you really must be feeling bad. Let me see—no, you don’t have a fever. You feel anything?” she said in a concerned voice. “I…no, it’s just…I saw…” “What did you see?” said the girl, sitting on the coffee table in front of him. “Maybe if you can tell me about it…” “I can’t.” said Forest. “I can’t tell you. You haven’t seen the Tree.” “The Tree?” said the girl, regarding him very strangely. Forest felt acutely foolish. Why did he always come out with weird-sounding things and seem so stupid? He looked at the ground and wished she would go away. “Why were the stars weeping?” she said. He thought about not saying anything at all. Maybe then she wouldn’t think him an idiot. He felt slow heat crawling through his face. “Because they had to change their courses, Lara.” Forest looked up quickly. The man in the brown coat was standing behind his chair. He had a scarf pulled tight around his neck, but his head was bare, and the wind outside had stood his dark hair all on end. “Do I know you from…? Oh, wait, I saw you at St. Joseph’s, didn’t I?” Lara exclaimed. “Do not look down on those who can see.” he said solemnly. “And do not call attention to them having sight. To do so would be dangerous.” “From what?” said Lara, that intense focus in her eyes again. “All Creation will make league to destroy him.” Forest said. “But I don’t see what…” “Lara, you will simply have to take my word for it.” the man in brown said. “The Door of Night is open.” From the sudden shock in her face, Forest knew the ominous words conveyed something to her. “I saw a face in the clouds…” she said. “A terrible face.” “Yes.” the man in brown replied. “He is loose. Forest, now that you have met, may I introduce Lara Midwinter of Riverton. Lara, this is Forest Lake of Wintergreen Island. Mark him well, for he is not easy to see; for his own protection he was hidden. Do not be afraid to speak to her, Forest. She has, in her fashion, seen the Tree.” “But she didn’t know what it was.” The man in brown looked at him with a mysterious expression. “She is of the stars, Forest. Do not expect her to see the same as you.” Both children gazed at him, intent, wondering. “We will have snow tonight, I can feel,” he said, pulling up his scarf. “Not much, but enough. It’ll pretty much ruin the ice upon the Long Lake, which is a pity. It was just starting to be thick enough to walk on. The ice fishers were out none the less, of course.” “They’re insane.” said Forest. “I agree they at times lack the brains God gave little peanuts.” Brown agreed. “I always wait for a stiff freeze before I go out there. Last time I was in these parts the lake was at the mercy of all the factories along the Outlet, and water just went up and down. Not good for the ice.” “That must have been a long time ago.” said Lara, looking fuddled. “The last of them expired in the 70s.” the man in brown leather said. “Hydroelectricity had its’ perks, but perhaps it is as well that it is gone from our hills.” “Yeah, my dad is always saying that they make such a fuss about power plants and complains that all the water power here would solve their problems, and I’m thinking, There go the streams.” said Lara. “Boyd laments in the Annals the spoiling of Robertsville Falls by the factory there, but today the concrete structures that remain are old and beautiful with wear, and downstream in the Gorge only some masonry remains of that intrusion. They had to carry out an archaeological dig to find the former industries!” He looked up suddenly. “Ah, there is your mother, Forest, come to pick you up. It is time we must leave. We are well-met, Lara, Forest.” “Goodbye.” said Forest with a shy grin. “It was nice to meet you again!” said Lara to the man in brown. “Bye, Forest. Glad to have met you.” “Um, same here.” said Forest awkwardly. “Bellie! How are you?” Brooke squealed. “Brookie!” Bell squealed back, and both girls burst into giggles. “Come on in! It’s too cold out here!” “Why, thank you.” said Brooke laughingly as she came into the detached blue house beside the bike way. “Brrr! I like winter, but single digits? I tend to draw the line there!” “It is so awesome you got your license! Are you going to get your own car?” “Hey, I just turned 16. I think driving on my own is quite enough of a concession! Mom and Dad are worried as it is.” “Hello, Brooke.” said Hunter Light, coming in from the living room. “What are you girls planning today?” “Oh, I was thinking we’d watch a movie.” said Bell. “No way! I wanted to see the beaver dams! You told me all about them and now I won’t get to see them!” Brooke pouted. “Oh, fine. We’ll go for a walk and then we’ll watch a movie.” “Don’t tell me—it’s going to be Beauty and the Beast.” said Mr. Light. “Dad! No! It is not!” Bell laughed. “I got out '' Bridge to Terebithia'' for just that reason!” “''Bridge''? Ugh. I saw that one way back. Didn’t like it.” said Brooke. “The story went all wrong. Why did they have to kill the imaginative girl so meaninglessly halfway in? I mean, they should have had her killed in an epic duel with the Dark Master twig-thingy, and the things they imagined be real, only visible by activating your imagination.” “Oh geez, now I don’t want to watch it.” complained Bell. “Hey, I do have a car! We can go to Blockbuster’s and rent Ghost Rider!” Brooke laughed. “You sure like to waste money.” said Bell as she headed off to bundle up. When she was ready the two girls headed out into the cold. It was blue and white outside; the two-inch snowfall of yesterday lay like a coat of paint over the grey and brown of the Still River swamplands. The sun shone bright and cold, low in the southern sky—in winter it was never in the east or west but in the south—and the blue air high above made the pale grey of the trees all the more distinct. The air was clear, clean and deeply cold. Bell consulted the outdoor thermometer and dramatically announced it was 19°. Brooke gave an exaggerated sigh of relaxation and nearly got snowballed. There was no wind. They shuffled up the bike path, deeply scarred by many frozen footprints, heading north past Burrville. After they crossed the road from Burr Mountain the bike path went past an electricity substation with all sorts of poles and wires and such like, and woods drew in on both sides. The heard the odd dry whiss of cars on the half-snowy surface of Winsted Rd about 30 ft away on the left, behind the belt of trees on that side. On the other the swamps lay, still and frozen under the coat of white, the red blush of winterberry showing here and there among the alders. The watercourse of the silent river was mostly frozen over, save for here and there where patches of open water remained around bushes or blockages. The beaver dams were reached in due course, crescent-shaped nets of twigs and branches and reeds all laid so they slanted upstream, sloping on the outside and steep where they held the water back. “I bet you could cross the river on that.” said Brooke. “Don’t you dare! It’ll probably collapse!” shrieked Bell. “Oh, you’re probably right. I’m cold. Let’s go watch something.” “Hey, you know what?” said Bell excitedly as they hurried back. “Dad says you can drive me to church by myself! He’s got a football game he really wants to watch, and he figures as long as he does some praying he’s keeping the Sabbath so it isn’t really necessary to go to church.” “I’m Methodist.” said Brooke. “Well, we can go to your church, then! I’ve always wanted to see what it looks like. And it’s not like you’re Catholic.” “Your dad’s anti-Catholic?” “No, I mean he’d have less issues with me going to a Methodist church than a Catholic one.” “Yeah, one Protestant church is much like another, but the Catholics…there’s something distinct about them.” “I wonder why that is.” Bell said pensively. “I mean, I’ve met Catholics, and they seem perfectly normal.” “They believe the weirdest things.” “I liked the church, though, St. Joseph’s. The statue of St. Joseph on the front, like he’s watching over Winsted—and those spires on the altar—“ “Yeah, ours is kinda small, but the Lord is with us.” “Did you know there are five churches in Winsted, all made of stone?” Bell remarked. “I heard a queer rhyme about them once, back in October.'' Hammers and urns, say the bells of 1st Church…''” “Who told it to you?” Bell grew sober. “A strange man in a brown leather coat, with these really wise old eyes, sort of ancient, you know? He didn’t look more than 40, but those eyes…I’ve only seen that sort of look in very old men.” “I’ve seen him, too!” Brooke gasped. “Holy smoke! That’s the guy who talked to me at the meatball supper!” Bell stopped so suddenly the snow squealed under her sneakers. “What did he say?” “Well, I…it’s hard to remember after all this time…” “It’s important. Everything he says is important.” Brooke grew serious as she reached into her memory. “He gave me a riddle about a well,” she said slowly, :”and he wasn’t too pleased when I asked his name. Oh! He said something across the room just before I lost sight of him…he called me child of the streams…he said he would have need of me, because the Road was returning.” Despite the breathless cold all around her Bell felt uncomfortably hot and prickly. “''When did they close it, say the bells of Methodist’s''…and Forest said they closed the Road.” “He did?” said Brooke. “That’s freaky. What’s all this about the bells?” Bell recited the ominous rhyme, her voice thin and strange in the iron air. Brooke grew pensive as they entered Bell’s yard. “This sounds really serious.” she said. “I wonder what all this has to do with us.” Sunday was, if anything, colder than before. Bell was all bundled up when Brooke drove in, and lost no time racing to the car and climbing inside. “Brrr-err-err-err, rr-rr-rr.” she sang. “Fortunately for you I have the heater on.” Brooke commented. “Oh great, now I’m going to have to take all this stuff off.” Brooke chuckled. “I won’t put it that high up.” In due course they pulled up along Main St outside the grey stone United Methodist Church, and Brooke parked near the bank next door as there was no room in front of the church. It stood massive and sturdy on the corner where High St descended to Main, the bell tower on the south square but with a pointed roof instead of the flat merloned structure above Bell’s church. A rounded dome covered the nave. There was a pair of double doors on the High St corner and a single pair farther over on the left, a side door tucked in a niche next the stairs. The double pair was unshovelled as the entry there was closed for repairs, Brooke explained. They walked up the granite stairs and pulled open the blue wood doors, which looked comfortingly familiar to Bell. Inside was a small vestibule with white walls and dark wood flooring. A stair wound upward to the galleries on the left, while an open door straight ahead led into the school area where the inevitable old ladies were getting cookies ready. Swinging plain doors on the right opened into the church interior. “Can we sit in the back?” Bell whispered. “I feel kind of shy.” “There’s no need to worry, Bell,” her friend answered, “they’re not going to throw you out.” “No, but they might welcome me to death.” Bell muttered. Humoring her, Brooke took a seat in one of the far back pews. A couple old people came up once or twice and asked if they wanted to sit with the crowd, but Brooke refused and Bell breathed easier. There were exactly 25 people in the pews and they seemed to have gathered in the central area. As she got used to the place, Bell began slowly to relax and look around. The church was built in a semicircle like hers, but was a little bigger, with great overhead galleries curving across the rear side of the semicircle. Warm golden-brown woodwork fronted the small but strangely decorative altar with the pulpit above it. Great windows on the south and west let in a flood of sunlight, warm and colored like honey from the peach tinting of the diamond-paned windows. A watery-colored stained-glass window of the Rich Young Man was just visible above the gallery from where the girls sat. Red poinsettias and bows lent a bright focus to the golden brown of the woodwork. The Methodist church had a curious atmosphere about it, a warmth and contentment of repose as it were. It was a small restful church. Bell wondered if each of the Five had a distinct and different atmosphere. Pastor Miller, very old and shaky but with an odd sprightliness of manner, was preaching about Herod. Bell listened with considerable interest when he remarked that Dionysius, when he made our calendar, made a mistake when he tried placing the time of Christ’s birth. Bibical scholars when comparing accounts found Herod died apparently in 4 BC, if you matched certain events in his reign with certain dated events of Roman history of that time, added to the reference to the census. Which meant Christ was born in 6 BC—six years Before Christ! The implications of this were most intriguing, as it meant our calendar was six years short, and this year, instead of being 2011, was actually 2017. The service was much like hers, with hymns and Scripture lessons and loooong sermon. She glanced down at the blue carpet—deep blue, like lake water—and ran her hand absently over the immense thickness of the carved pew end. She was delighted when one of the hymns turned out to be a Christmas carol: carols were her favorite. “I love this one!” Brooke whispered excitedly. Bell gave a wide grin and they began singing “The First Noel” with great enthusiasm, although their light thin voices didn’t rise above the organ. Another voice did, however, a deep and heart-stopping male voice somewhere behind them, blending and thundering with the deeper and louder notes of the pipe organ. As the last tones of “born is the Ki-ing of I-israel” faded, Bell turned her head quickly to see who had been singing. A sifting fall of white dust like very fine snow was all that met her eyes, and there was no one in the pew behind. “That’s weird.” said Brooke; she had turned as well. “I guess he slipped out.” “Who was it?” said Bell. “He has such an awesome voice. I wish I could have seen him.” “I don’t know.” Brooke mulled. “I’ve never heard anyone sing like that before. Wasn’t anyone I know.” “If you don’t mind, I’ll go see if they have cookies while you can greet everybody.” Bell said quickly as several old people began exiting the pews in their direction. Brooke gave her a friendly cuff and Bell giggled and made her escape into the school area. A large central room rose for two stories, a balcony running around it with rooms opening off it, the walls white and woodwork dark brown. A table near the door had a red and green tablecloth on which were arrayed plates of coconut macaroons, cookies, Italian cookies, sugar cookies, all sorts of cookies. Bell smiled with anticipation as she loaded her plate. The big man in front of her was moving too slowly and she reached around him. He had an odd smell, like wood smoke. “Not polite to grab, little Light.” said the man. She looked up, startled, into deep old blue eyes fading to amber at their hearts. “Oh!” she said, putting one hand on her bosom. “You started me.” “You are starting on the right track.” said the man in the brown leather coat. “It took you long enough. What a good thing I started things early.” “Brooke was with me.” said Bell. “I’m so glad you’re here; we have some things to ask you.” “The answers must be sought, Bell, not given.” he answered. “There are five of you, one from each church and one from each village, and a sixth from Winsted who is most important of all. The Road is not your province, though you shall find it; you are Bell, and the bells are your concern. What is the meaning of the five stone churches, and what are the secrets that each one conceals? That is the answer you hunt. A Merry Christmas, little maiden.” “A…a Merry Christmas to you.” she stammered. The man in brown leather turned, still bearing his plate of cookies, and strode out the door. Brooke was just coming in. He handed her the plate as he walked by. “I will see you in the spring, child of the streams.” he said. Her eyes bulged. “Wait! Stop!” gasped Brooke. “Please…who and what am I?” “Are you?” the man in brown said, lifting his brows. “You are Brook. Water is yours and you are its. Follow Bell, not Bell you, for she needs your help in her quest.” “But…” Brooke stammered. The man in brown pushed through the door and was gone. Bell joined her dumbstricken friend and began eating a cookie. “And that,” she observed dramatically, “is the guy who told me the rhyme.” “Let’s go.” said Brooke, shaking herself. “I wanted to hit the Winsted Diner with you, but now…what did he say to you, anyway?” “There’s five of us.” said Bell. “One from each church and one from each village. Oh, and a sixth from Winsted.” “What villages?” said Brooke as they bundled each other up. “I know you’re from Burrville, and I’m from Winchester Center…I suppose that would count as a village…” “Wait, there’s Colebrook, Riverton…Pleasant Valley…” “Ronnie Wendy’s from Pleasant Valley.” “Oh, you know Ronnie?? My dad and I met him when we wandered over to check out St. Joseph’s.” “I’ve met him at community dinners and Stop & Shop. Where I work, you know. He’s Catholic.” “And I’m from 1st Baptist—but why does the rhyme say New Baptist? Where’s that? There’s First Church of Christ, and they’re Baptists as well, Baptist Congregationals that is, even though they never mention the Baptist part on the sign…” “Ronnie said once that Christ Church ought to be called Old Baptist ‘cause it was the first one built.” “Oh yes! That man in brown, you know, he said the Baptists split and went off and built my church. Said they had minister issues. So that would make my church New Baptist, and Christ Church be 1st Church with the hammers and urns…” “So there’s Ronnie…and us…and that Forest kid from the library…Catholic, Methodist, 1st Baptist—er, New Baptist…that leaves two missing.” said Brooke. “We’re gonna have to do some church-hopping.” “I am not going to a Catholic church!” “Who said we’re going to it?” said Bell. “Brr! Can we go somewhere? Instead of standing here?” “Yeah, let’s get to my car!” shivered Brooke, flapping her arms. They ran across the snowy lawn in front of the church, which was separated from the bank parking lot by a privet hedge. Just as they were rounding the corner where the hedge meets the sidewalk by Main Street, Brook tripped on something and fell flat on the frozen cement. “''Ohhhh!” she gasped, trying to get up. “Brooke, are you OK? Brooke!” cried Bell. “I guess,” grumbled Brooke, sitting up. “I feel like I scraped my knee…and I know I skinned my hand. What the ''heck did I bang into?” “This…oh, this is so cool. Look, this must be a milestone.” said Bell. Under the lee of the hedge, jutting from the lawn two feet in height, was a worn finger of grey stone. It was irregular, but one side had been planed flat, and chiselled on it in the flourishing letters used on carvings two hundred years ago it said: 26½ M. to H. 67 M. to Albany. “Wow, yeah, I never even noticed that. Isn’t that neat?” said Brooke. “More than neat.” said Bell. “I think it’s the connection your church has to this—Road.” “It’s just a marker between Hartford and Albany, New York, Bell.” “I know.” said Bell. “Come on. Let’s get you up Do you still want to hit the Diner, or do you want to head back home and fix something while we tune out my dad groaning and cursing at the enemy team?” “My dad groans and curses at his own team.” said Brooke. “When they lose, that is. Which is half the time.”